


Untitled, Verona Beach

by marginalia



Series: Verona Beach [1]
Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Verona Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-11
Updated: 2004-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/pseuds/marginalia





	

Esteban had been too long away from the sea. The curve and the swell of waves, the slow rocking of the boat, the salt spray and his fingers tangled in Ioan's hair, these had all served to wear away at his rough edges, to make him smooth.

The world was an ever-changing place, however, and it was only a matter of time before the patronage bestowed by business exceeded that of governments. He weighed his options and returned to land, where his unique skills served him well, his command of language and his position as a man of medicine bringing authority and unlocking doors. It was a profitable partnership, but he missed the sea. Dry land scarred him, made him rough and angular.

When instructions strongly suggested a meeting of sorts on the coast, he could not be there soon enough. He arrived in town in a rented black Executioner, a half empty bottle of brandy under the seat. He sat for a while in the parking garage of the hotel, finishing his cigarette, then went to check in and change. The girl at the desk gave him his room key and a smile full of promise, but his edges were too sharp for a woman now.

The early evening dose of laudanum and he was off, wind blowing sand gritting diamonds between his teeth. He wandered towards the beach itself, the sun sinking and neon shooting into life around him, objects and people floating in a drowsy glow. He swung his arms at his sides in dream, then stopped outside a small bar, Illyria, rolling off his tongue.

It was early yet and not too crowded. He ordered a drink and scanned the room. His gaze was trapped by a tall youth with dark eyes, slim form in tight black trousers and a shirt bearing the image of the Sacred Heart of Mary. Esteban watched him for a moment, then looked away, finished his drink, and stepped towards the door.

Out in the street the breeze blew warm. He heard a gunshot in the distance, but continued, unhurried. He trailed his fingertips along the remains of a wall. A voice behind him, and then the youth, a scar curling across his skin, dark hair curling, skin pale in the moonlight. He said his name was Tomas, and no one should walk the beach alone.

Bonfires and music spun ahead of them, the light dancing off Tomas's skin, Esteban burning, muttering prayers. All around them color and shapes and slow touching. _Sinners._

Fireworks sparkled above the water, and the music and the surf rocked them slow and sure. They left their shoes near a wall and continued down, sand growing damp and cool between their toes. When the water curled around his ankles, Esteban shivered and sighed.

He turned to Tomas, who opened to his touch and curved around him, welcome heat. Esteban licked the salt from inside his mouth, the moonlight from his skin. The sea.

::

Someone whistles, high and sweet, and someone else turns on a car stereo, bass thumping. Esteban is drawing back, waking up, cutting himself on the sharp edges. Palm to chest, he feels the outline of the scapular under Tomas's shirt. _I'm sorry_ , he says, and he runs, slip-sliding on the sand. He finds the wall through some miracle, and pauses to put on his shoes. He does not look back. He knows Tomas will not follow. Back at the hotel he doses himself and tumbles into dreamless sleep.

In the morning, the sun burns through the curtains, shimmering waves across the sky. He showers the grit away and dresses in something cool and loose. He asks at the front desk, and they direct him to a restaurant a short walk away. He finishes his cigarette, grinds it out with the toe of his shoe, and enters. The heavyset waitress brings him coffee, and he drinks it quickly, scalding away the sour remains of the night.

Over a simple breakfast - rice, eggs, beans - he reads through the current intelligence. The remains of his meal grow cold as he loses himself in the paperwork, one hand drifting unconsciously, brushing at the top of his head. He comes back to himself suddenly, flips the portfolio closed, and traces the monogram with his fingertips - WRH embossed in the leather. He slips it into his haversack, pays his bill, and decides to take some time to explore the city.

He supposes it safer now, the world all alight, but it's rarely that simple. He steps around a tangled knot of children, sing-song stories that he thought he had left at sea. Dusty bookshops, stalls full of cheap jewelry and bruised flowers. Sleek and heavy cars tear up the streets, squealing away.

For a moment he sees a man, hair shining golden in the sun, and memory rises, sharp like incense. Esteban doubles back and ducks into a chapel, spilling coins into the offering box and lighting candles to drive away ghosts.


End file.
